


Peppermint nights

by Inky_Scribbles



Series: Lullabies for The Nothings [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Autistic Dick Grayson, Autistic Tim Drake, Blankets, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Fluff, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, Photography, Rain, Tim Drake-centric, actually i bet an autistic could too, i bet a neurotypical could read this and not realise, theyre not the focus though, totally forgot abt those lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky_Scribbles/pseuds/Inky_Scribbles
Summary: There is no shouting, and there is no screaming. No leaping or scratching or escaping out the window to a chilly rooftop. Not even his eyes blink beneath the flicker of the candlelight.Then, slowly, quietly, Talon’s hand comes to meet the page, grazing the edge of the photo with his knuckles. A single finger reaches out to brush against the face of a still frame John Grayson. Then, it moves to Mary, and finally settles against Tim’s round face.Talon’s voice comes out in a whisper, like a thin caress. Somehow, he knows. “This is… you?”//There's a lot of things Talon doesn't remember, and most days Tim knows he doesn't want to remember them. But tonight is different.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Series: Lullabies for The Nothings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665112
Comments: 6
Kudos: 178





	Peppermint nights

**Author's Note:**

> So I was gonna write more Roy and Dick, but then I was thinking about Talons and this came out.
> 
> This is one of those fics that I write where it's like,,, a part of a series that hasn't been written yet. And probably won't be, considering the amount of wips ive gotta wade through. But im making it a part of a series, bc i Want to write it, so there will probably be more. but if u like it, dont get ur hopes up too high
> 
> Anyway, thats probably why this feels like its come out of nowhere. also bc its the middle of the night, and despite the fact that corona closed my school, i still have to get at ridiculous-o-clock tomorrow. well, today. a few hours from now. so yeah.

On nights like these, Tim prefers to sleep on the uppermost floor of Drake manor. It’s not the tidiest of places, and Tim almost prefers it this way - not even the maids come up here much. The attic is mostly covered in a thick layer of dust, furniture covered in white sheets spread out across the creaky floors. Tonight, all of the maids have gone home already, so he is mostly alone.

There are three window sills in the attic, and it is at the one furthest from the ladder down to the landing below that Tim sits, hidden by an old-fashioned sofa still in good condition, two bookshelves and a stack of miscellaneous boxes. No one has bothered to install lights up here, since it’s so empty all of the time, so Tim sits with a scented candle he got from his parents while they were in China.

It’s only from this room that he can hear the rain as it patters gently down, sliding against the window in cold sheets, the frequency rising and falling like waves against a beach. As he sets the candle’s dish against the window seat, he takes the time to listen, allows his breathing to follow the gentle sway of its sound.

The window bites against him icily as he sets his back against it, eyes fumbling to stay open and bare arms awash with goose flesh. It’s cold, but it’s not often that he has nights like these to himself anymore - not after Talon came - so he eases himself into it, and sits with his favourite photobook. The well worn leather spine groans as he opens it to the first page, and he allows himself the time to enjoy his favourite memory in picture form.

Dick’s smiling face, brown and kissed by the sun, as it should be - as it should have stayed. A tiny version of Tim, gently balanced in his hands, too small for Tim to remember clearly. His parents, twin camera ready smiles on their faces (the same one they use every time), and Mary and John Grayson, a hand each on Dick’s shoulders, and an arm across Tim’s parents’, too.

They look happy, mostly. It would have been jarring, if he didn’t sneak peeks of this photo at every opportunity; reminding himself of who Talon had once been, of who he had the potential to be.

A small scribble of a date is written there, Tim’s own hand. Before he took calligraphy lessons to keep his writing on par with the rest of the diamond district’s expectations, and his parents’. Only years ago, but it feels like a lifetime. For Dick, it most likely has been. 

Talon. For Talon, it most likely has been.

Not that Tim knows much about the process of making a Talon, but whatever is in Talon’s veins is definitely not blood, and, well - the skin colour can’t be normal. White like a frosty snowdrop, before winter has fully passed.

He pushes the thought from his mind, breathes to the pattering of raindrops, and turns the page. A gleeful Robin, face obscured by his arms and body twisted tightly, but clearly not unhappy. His whole body moves when he smiles, and that’s all Tim needs to know, if he wants to tell. Well, it’s different now. And Tim accepts that, but sometimes… he just likes to remember. That’s all.

He’s not really sure why he does this, whenever he has the chance. It’s always a strange sensation, to go from this to Talon’s blankness the next day. But he’ll get over it, because Dick is Talon now; he’s different. And maybe, with Tim’s help, he can change some more. For the better.

The rain raps against the window, and it’s almost loud enough that he misses the creak of a floorboard. He’s certain that’s on purpose.

Realising what he has in his hands, he quickly scrambles to shut the book and push it between his legs so that it will remain unseen, but by the gleam in his eyes, Talon already knows what he’s hiding. Tim holds his breath, because Talon has never liked his pictures.

Talon’s face is as drawn off as always, although his hands shake against the cold. It’s instantly obvious why he’s here, what drew him out of the room he can usually hardly bear to leave. Guilt wells up inside of him like a weeping tree, and he almost trips in his rush to get to Talon, book falling to the wayside.

No, whatever is rushing through Talon’s veins is most definitely not blood. It is cold - room temperature most days - but the chill of February has yet to succumb into March, and Tim knows already that what the cold is to Talon is like what poison is to Tim.

His arms, unbidden, wrap themselves around Talon, and Talon freezes in his hold like a block of ice, and not fully metaphorically. He is always like this at first, when Tim embraces him, even when he asks for it - but it always ends the same, too.

Talon crumples in his arms like wet newspaper, the only sign of weakness Tim ever sees out of him. It’s never jarring, not quite, even if it feels like a breach of character.

There are other ways to keep Talon warm, but he always goes to Tim first. In his own Talon way, Tim likes to think that this is the remnants of Dick in him. Looking for a hug, for physical affection, for whatever it is that made Dick so tactile before he became Talon.

They sink to the floor, curled around each other like interconnected cables. Tim shimmies a sheet off of the ugly sofa from a different era, and clumsily wraps them in it until Talon’s shivering sputters out into a low hum of movement, like he’s too exhausted to fully shake.

Towels and blankets are meant to contain and preserve the heat of a person, but Talon is always room temperature, and in a drafty old house like this, barely renovated (since his parents barely spend any time here, and they’ve never been frivolous with their money; not like the Waynes), he is almost always cold. So he needs a heater of some kind - electric radiator, hot water bottle, or something else - but it usually ends up being Tim. Not that he minds, not one bit. It’s the one time when Talon lets them touch, and maybe that’s a selfish thought, but Tim can’t help but think it anyway.

There’s a rustle and a shift, and suddenly under the sheet and between them is an object. Talon watches it carefully, moving just barely to the side to fit it between them gently, like it’s a precious thing. And to Tim, it is, but Talon doesn’t want to know what’s in there, surely. He never has before, not after the disastrous first few disastrous tries (and not before, either), before Tim looked up trauma on the internet to get some headway.

The pad of Talon’s thumb mumbles over the slightly raised words printed across the front. _Timothy’s first photobook_ , it read, not that Talon probably knew that. His mother had gotten it for him the minute he showed interest in photography, and he’d known exactly which picture to put in there first, even if it wasn’t his own work.

Warily, and because he doesn’t really want Talon to look further into it, he reads the words out slowly. Not even a lick of upper class Gothamite in there, just evenly printed RHOTIC. He hopes that makes it easier for Talon to understand. He’s never shown much interest in reading before.

“Timothy’s…” Talon parrots, almost exactly as Tim said it, intonation and all.

“My first photobook,” Tim explains. “I take photos, and then put them in a book. This one’s full, though.”

“Photobook.”

“Yeah.”

Talon reaches for the cover, and Tim closes his eyes in resignation. Hopes beyond all hope that he’s made enough progress with Talon that he won’t mind at least looking at the pictures of himself. From before.

And the first page blooms under the flickering light of the candle, now not much use in terms of reading, but he knows that Talon never needed it anyway. It’s just the same as it was a few moments ago, except for the tiny crease against the top left corner of the page. Instinctively, he goes to smooth it down, but Talon beats him to it.

His reaction this time is much less volatile.

Tim chances a glance at Talon’s face, and it’s smoothed over of emotion, golden eyes just as wide as always. The kind of wide that makes it look like he’s taking in everything at once, bright and shiny and dangerous. 

There is no shouting, and there is no screaming. No leaping or scratching or escaping out the window to a chilly rooftop. Not even his eyes blink beneath the flicker of the candlelight.

Then, slowly, quietly, Talon’s hand comes to meet the page, grazing the edge of the photo with his knuckles. A single finger reaches out to brush against the face of a still frame John Grayson. Then, it moves to Mary, and finally settles against Tim’s round face. He’s unrecognisable from today, and even if Talon had most of his memories, he probably wouldn’t see much of a resemblance.

Still, Talon’s voice comes out in a whisper, like a thin caress. Somehow, he knows. “This is… you?”

Tim nods, feels his hair brush against Talon’s neck, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s me, when I was younger.” His eyes flick from Talon’s face to his finger, and then to Dick Grayson’s wide performer’s grin. He wonders if Talon recognises himself in that.

His hand withdraws from the page, but his eyes do not. Tim has only a small inkling as to what he’s looking at, and he doesn’t know how he should tread around this just yet. He still doesn’t know if it was a mistake to allow Talon to open this book.

“And that’s me.” Talon says, eventually.

A gust of air dips out from under Tim’s tongue as he nods.

There’s a pause, and the wind and the rain seem louder than ever in that moment, the candle bright as can be against the dark of the gloomy Gotham night. But it only lasts for a moment, a short pause, and then Talon’s finger pokes experimentally at his own face on the page, like it’s a bug with a stinger that might bite back.

Tim doesn’t say anything. He wonders what it feels like, to have lost all you’ve known, to have people present what you’ve never felt or seen before to you as real, with proof, even though you don’t remember it. Can’t hold the proof within yourself to know whether or not something happened. A stranger’s life, maybe. The picture and the real thing look nothing alike.

“I don’t look like him.”

“No,” Tim murmurs. “You don’t.”

“I don’t feel like him.” It would be discouraging, except Talon’s fingers are warily grazing against the face of his younger self, tender and not quite calm, but something close.

“You don’t have to.” It hurts to say it, hurts to know it. But Talon isn’t Dick Grayson, and he won’t ever be the Dick Grayson that was before, even if what he lost came back. His arms squeeze around Talon’s middle, and he hopes that conveys what Tim can’t really put into words.

Talon nods, fingers drawing away from the page once again. He is still, but the way his eyes stick to the page, unseeing, tells Tim that he’s chewing over his next words. Tim knows the feeling.

“More?” He settles on, eventually, and Tim smiles. He smooths over the crease on the corner of the page one last time, and then turns it over.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> (If this gets updated, its bc i remembered to tag something that i forgot when i posted it, bc i have no brain right now. this is barely edited, im sorry lol)


End file.
